


Universally Speaking

by apodiopsys



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s07e10 Death's Door, M/M, Season 7 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-19
Updated: 2012-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-29 19:49:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/323506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apodiopsys/pseuds/apodiopsys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After everything, Dean stops talking. He doesn't say anything and he doesn't do anything and Sam is <i>worried.<br/></i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Universally Speaking

  
For a long time after they get back to Bobby’s - Rufus’ - cabin in Montana, Dean doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t do much of anything either, but then again, neither of them did, not in the first weeks. There’s a lot of sitting and drinking, watching whatever’s on one of the nine channels that they have. On a bad day they can get through three bottles of whiskey. On a good one, they drink beer. Dean doesn’t go out either. He takes up his position on the sofa, the same one that he’d sat on for the duration that his leg had been broken and doesn’t move for the most of three weeks.

Sam talks for him, and he fills the silence when the TV isn’t on. His baby brother does almost everything that Dean can’t: he cooks and he cleans and he makes sure that Dean is showering at least twice a week. He goes out and buys more groceries which mostly consist of instant ramen and alcohol. This is as close to college food that he’s going to get to ever again. Sam talks about everything and anything under the sun, brings up memories of Dad and Bobby that Dean had long forgotten about. He sings sometimes, early in the morning while he’s making them breakfast or at night when he’s a little drunk and a lot numb.

Still, Dean doesn’t say anything.

It scares him, that Dean is caught up in his head so much that he can’t get the words out. It scares him that Dean is stuck in there with all of his monsters and that Sam can’t even help him. Sometimes when he doesn’t know he’s looking he can see the pain that flits across his face, in his eyes. It’s mostly in his eyes, and sometimes they stare back at him, bottle-green eyes pleading _help me, Sammy, please_. Sam doesn’t know how.

There are days when Dean doesn’t move from the couch. He gaze is listless, stuck on the screen or a corner or a fucking book, barely blinking as Sam moves carefully around him. While he stands still, the earth keeps turning. It shocks him when Sam comes out of his bedroom - Bobby’s old bedroom - to find that Dean is having a nightmare. He sleeps on the couch because he can barely move from it most days; Sam finds him having silent nightmares, body rigid in a way that he remembers from when Dean had just come back from hell.

His mouth is open in a silent scream, and when he goes to help him Dean’s fingers claw and grab at him, simultaneously trying to pull him closer and push him away. Sam manages to pin him down, fingers curled tight around his shoulders and shakes shakes shakes until Dean’s eyes snap open and stare wildly back at him.

In the dim light coming through the window, Sam sees dark red staining Dean’s lower lip and he presses his thumb onto it, into his mouth. There’s no noise of protest on Dean’s behalf but the face he makes is enough. Sam takes his hand back and looks down at his thumb, bloodstained from where Dean apparently bit through his tongue. He makes a soft noise, says, “Oh, _Dean._ ” He doesn’t even know he’s doing it until it’s actually happening, but then Sam is leaning down and cupping Dean’s jaw carefully and licking into his mouth.

There’s the metallic taste of blood that they’re both overly familiar with; Sam’s lips are dry, catching against Dean’s. He kisses him deep, cradling Dean’s face in both hands now. Neither make any move to pull or push away - if anything, his fingers scrabble and clutch and Sam’s shoulders and pull him closer. Afterwards, he pulls away and looks at Dean, all kiss-swollen lips stained red by his own blood. Sam doesn’t know if he wants to punch him for letting that happen or kiss him again.

There’s a moment where he almost flees, but then Dean’s hand is curved around his wrist, gripping tight and pulling him down so he’s lying on top of him on the sofa. He shifts them around until Sam is behind him, back to the couch and chest pressed to Dean’s back. They used to sleep like this when they were younger, smaller; there isn’t really space for them to do this anymore, not now that Sam is built like a wall with Dean only just behind him. Still, Sam’s arm slips around his waist and pulls him in tight, grip on him protective so he doesn’t fall.  



End file.
